


What We Want and What We Can Have

by ProblematicFavesAreProblematic (SaritaNotSerena)



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28638993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaritaNotSerena/pseuds/ProblematicFavesAreProblematic
Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a case of bad wiring, the letter had said.

A few wires and the entire house had gone up in an explosion of electricity and smoke.

The only consolation offered in the note from your brother was that your sister, her husband, and your mother hadn’t suffered long- that they’d been asleep and died instantly.

If that could even be considered a consolation. The proffered reassurance didn’t console you at all.

It made you feel sick- that they hadn’t even had a chance to escape. No warning.

Your father had woken up to the smell of smoke, and that was the only reason he was still alive- because he’d gone to the living room to check the fireplace to ensure it wasn’t the source of the smell.

And now he lay in a hospital bed with burns to 70% of his body, on the other side of the world and with only your brother and his wife to sit by his side. 

And the only thing your father had asked your brother to relay to you?

_ Don’t come home. Finish what you started. Your mother and I are so proud of you. _

That almost hurt as badly as knowing that your mother was gone, that your sister and brother and law were gone.

_ Don’t come home. _

Winters had been the one with you when you’d opened the letter, and when you’d dropped it in shock he’d been the one to pick it up and read it’s heartbreaking announcement under his breath.

Hearing the words was worse than reading them. It made it true.  _ It made it real _ .

When you’d announced that you were going to need a minute in a broken whisper, he’d nodded and put the letter back in your hand with a tight ‘i’m so sorry’ whispered as you all but ran out of the CP and sought privacy in one of the still-standing structures of the small French town by the border.

It was only when you found yourself plunged into the darkness of the room that you’d allowed yourself to break. Silent screams burned your throat as you cried harder than you ever had in your entire life, your skin sweaty and your hands tearing at your hair like they could uproot the knowledge of what had happened from your mind and make it all go away.

It didn’t make sense. You were the one in the most danger, the one that wasn’t meant to survive. 

How could you justify risking your life for the betterment of your family, when it had been a silent threat of poor electrical maintenance to take their lives? Why had you fought so hard?

How had you forgotten that people died from things other than war?

You’d cried until your eyes ran dry and your muscles ached from the heaving sobs that racked your body. 

_ Don’t come home. _

When you had finally managed to plop your exhausted body down on a crate, you felt like a hollow doll of yourself. Everything you did, all that you’d ever done had been for your family- and now that half of them were gone you realized you had no idea what to do with yourself.

What was the point of fighting if everything you fought for was dead and gone?

You weren’t sure how long you’d been staring at the wall before you heard the steady tread of booted feet creaking on the distressed wood of the floor, the sound startling you enough to blink out the tears that had gathered in your eyes.

You didn’t have it in you to wipe them away as they rolled down your cheeks, feeling completely wrung out and raw in the cool, dim room you’d sequestered yourself in. 

As the steps came to a stop beside you, you sniffed and bit the inside of your cheek.

You didn’t need to turn your head to see who it was. You already knew.

There was only one person who it could be, only one person who wouldn’t announce themselves before coming over.

Ron Speirs didn’t care if you wanted to be alone.

When he sits beside you on one of the larger crates that were being housed in the attic-like room, you close your eyes and try not to find comfort in the warmth of his thigh against yours, the rough trace of his small finger ghosting over your knuckles. 

He’d seen you at your worst many times before- when you’ve been sick and tired and smelly and the few times you’d felt so angry you swore you could kill a man.

Yet somehow, having him see you like this felt shameful. This felt too private to share, especially with someone like him. 

But he must’ve known the state he was going to find you in- you were sure everyone had heard the news you had gotten by now. He knew what had happened and had come to find you anyway.

You didn’t want to think about what that meant, not right now.

His eyes were on you, you could always feel when he was looking at you. It had been happening more and more and despite the fact that it was becoming obvious to everyone else it didn’t seem to deter him any. It used to make you feel self-conscious, but now?

Now it felt like a hand on your shoulder- reassuring and secure and supportive.

You open your eyes at the sound of him sparking his lighter, turning your head slightly to watch him light the cigarette between his lips with the confident movements of someone who has done it a thousand times before. After taking a drag he holds it out to you, and when you take it he exhales the smoke from his lungs and leans back so his back is against the wall as well. 

You offer a small smile as you take the cigarette from his fingers and bring it to your mouth, turning your head back to you’re facing the opposite wall once more.

The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette back and forth. It’s during one of your turns with it that you find yourself suddenly wondering if smoke from a house fire felt the same as cigarette smoke in your lungs, and you can’t help the roll of pain that crashes over you like a wave.

Your upset must be obvious enough for Ron to notice, because he takes the smoldering cigarette from your fingers and puts it out on his boot before he murmurs your name softly. Worriedly. 

“How do you do it?”

He seems caught off guard by the question, his brow furrowed and head slightly tilted when you turn to look at him again. Dark eyes search your face for a moment, as if he'll find some clarity in your drawn expression.

‘What do you mean?”

You swallow the thickness in your throat before shrugging minutely.

“Not care about anything... _ any of it. _ ”

Something flashes in his gaze, and when he sits up you can’t help but let your eyes trace over the broad span of his shoulders. He’s pulling out another cigarette as he answers.

“I care about things,” he says gruffly, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve offended him. “Plenty of things.”

You let the statement hang in the air for a second, giving him a moment to expand on it. 

He doesn’t.

“Well,” you sit up as well, holding your hand out in his direction for the unoffered cigarette. He gives you a quick look before relenting and letting you pinch it between your index and middle finger. “You don’t seem to let those things affect you.”

_ “How would you know? _ ” 

Now you know you’ve insulted him, at least a little bit.

“You don’t know what I care about, what matters to me.”

He isn’t angry- and while it’s never been directed at  _ you _ , you’ve seen him angry before and know that if he truly were upset with you, he’d just leave and never speak to you again. As childish as it feels to think it, you almost feel like you’ve  _ hurt his feelings _ .

There’s an unfamiliar defensiveness in his tone that has you feeling prickly, as if he somehow was the one who was being insensitive.

“ _ Clearly not _ . No one does.”

There are a few tense beats of silence, but when you touch the hand fisted on his thigh and offer him the cigarette back, his shoulders relax infinitesimally and he takes it from your fingers. In a move you hope comes across as apologetic, you shift your body to face him and bow your head until your forehead is pressed against his shoulder carefully.

As he sighs deeply, you know the gesture is well received. The way he lets his fingertips brush against the back of your hand serves as confirmation, the quick touch tickling the skin enticingly.

You have to wet your lips before you feel like you can speak again.

“I just...I don't want to feel anything anymore. I just want to  _ shut it off— _ ”

“Feeling things isn’t a bad thing.”

The sentiment surprises you, and when you lift your head from his shoulder he meets your gaze with one of neutrality and offers a noncommittal shrug. “They aren’t  _ convenient _ , but they aren’t bad.”

You furrow your brow at that, tilting your head to the side while narrowing your eyes

“That’s...not what you said to Blithe.”

“You’re not Blithe.”

That throws you for a loop. You don’t know where he’s trying to go with this.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“ _ Blithe _ wanted to be a frontline paratrooper.”

Ron turns so he’s looking at you straight on now, eyes serious as they watch you. “He wanted to fight and lead. You can’t  _ lead _ if you let  _ fear _ rule you.”

_ “And me _ ?” you press, bringing your legs up and folding them you watch him critically. “I’m afraid all the time—”

“ _ Your _ fear keeps  _ you safe.”  _ He says it like it’s obvious. “Being an intelligence officer is different from a frontline foot soldier.  _ You _ can’t do your job if you ignore your gut instinct. Foot soldiers just need to learn how to follow their gut and not care if they get hurt while doing so.”

Before you can reply, Ron reaches for your canteen beside you and presses it into your hand, the wordless command making you scoff and roll your eyes.

He smirks minutely, bringing the cigarette to his lips and watching you as you indulge him with a few glugs of cool water.

“Happy?”

“ _ Thrilled _ .” 

As you set the canteen down you find yourself entranced by the sight of the smoke being exhaled through his slightly chapped lips, the way it curls down his chin before getting caught in the more forceful stream of breath and dissipating. 

When your eyes flick to his you realize that he caught you staring, and you quickly look down at your lap and pick at some dirt beneath your fingernail.

You swear you hear him huff a laugh, but when you look up again he’s stone-faced again.

A sudden boldness overtakes you. Maybe it’s because you feel like you have nothing left to lose anymore.

“Doesn’t it get lonely? Not letting yourself care too deeply for anything or anyone at all?” your chest feels warm from the riskiness of it, knowing that you’re starting to get close to the unspoken but respected boundary the two of you have. 

The line in the sand that has been becoming harder and harder to see, the one that keeps this strange closeness between the two of you from taking what would probably have been a logical next step- if you had met back home in a world not at war.

Even though he has to know that the conversation is dangerously close to becoming intimate in a way that shouldn’t necessarily exist between comrades, Ron only pauses a moment before answering honestly. 

“Of course it does.”

He looks at a spot over your shoulder for a moment, like he’s thinking carefully about what to say next. “It’s….. not about  _ not _ caring deeply, it’s about using those things that matter to fuel your fight.”

You hadn't realized that you’d started to lean closer to him, or that your voices have become softer. And even when you do, you don’t make a move to correct it.

Your mouth feels dry, and when Ron looks back at you you feel extremely exposed in some strange way. If you were smart, you’d direct the conversation elsewhere- somewhere safer.

But you don’t want to. And judging by the way Ron’s eyes have softened, he doesn’t want you to either.

“ _ Ron _ ?” your voice is just above a whisper.

“ _ Hm _ .” 

The sound is warm, his lips slightly parted in a way you find distracting.

“What  _ do _ you care about?”

He answers almost immediately.

“ _ Things I probably shouldn’t. Things I can’t have. _ ”

You feel your cheeks darken, but you have met his gaze and under it you can’t even consider looking away. 

“ _ Like what? _ ”

He shakes his head at that, releasing you from his unwavering eye contact in favor of watching his hand come up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb lightly brushing up and down against your too-warm skin.

You hear yourself sigh, heart beating a thousand times a minute and your breathing slightly hitched.

“ _ Why not? _ ’

A small, rueful smile curls the corners of his lips, and when he looks into your eyes again he gives you another light head shake.

“Because, it wouldn’t change anything. Because the truth isn’t always helpful.”

You can feel his breath against your lips, the hand holding your neck gently pulling you closer.

“Ron, I—”

**“** **_Y/N!?_ ** **”**   
  


You both startle at the sound of Lewis Nixon hollering your name, whatever heady spell the two of you had been swept up in cracking like splintering glass. You freeze in place, unwilling to take your eyes from Ron’s face despite the knowledge that your moment of privacy has come to an end.

Ron, for his part, hasn’t stopped looking at you with heavy lidded eyes- as if he hasn’t heard Nix or if he simply is refusing to acknowledge the sound of the other man’s voice.

“ **_Y/N?! Where are you? Sink’s looking for us and you know I can’t be left unsupervised in professional settings for long…._ ** ”

With a frustrated sigh, you give Ron a tight smile.

“If I don’t go now, he’ll just keep shouting until I do—”

“I know,” he says despite the fact that his hand is still holding you in place. “You should indulge him before it only gets worse.”

You sigh a laugh at that, forcing yourself to lean back and away from Ron’s touch. You notice that his hand lingers in the slope of your neck for a bit longer than it should have, but your head is feeling cloudy with confusion and a strange sense of guilt that you can’t explain.

As you stand, you cast another look at Ron, who has returned to his earlier position of leaning against the wall and watching you. Swallowing down the tightness in your throat, you give him a small nod and begin to walk away.

A thought crosses your mind, one that makes you stop in the doorway and turn back to look at him.

“I’ll never  _ actually _ know you, will I Ron Speirs?”

When he smiles at you your heart begins to race, like he’s letting you in on a secret.

“That’s not true,” he says softly, eyes trailing over you before meeting your gaze once more. “You know me better than anyone else here.”

“Why me?”

This time, you know what he’s telling you is a truly private thing.

“Because I want you to. Because you should.”

With that, he tilts his head in the direction Nix’s voice had come from.

“You should go before he comes looking for you.”

You nod, taking a deep breath and leaving to go find your SUpervisor.

Ron, unsure why he decided to tell you that, makes a low sound in his throat before turning back to look at the wall.

  
_ Because you matter,  _ he lets himself think the words he wishes he could say.  _ You matter more than you know. _


	2. Chapter 2

The grey smoke from the burning church stung your eyes, and as you feel your tears trickle down your cheeks you wonder if they are soot-stained as well. 

Around you, you can hear the screams of bombs whistling through the air- the harmonizing shrieks of the wounded and dying ringing in your ears as you watch Gene running towards the smoldering building, but you can’t seem to do anything other than watch. You know you need to do something, anything to help the medic save the handful of people bursting through the smoke like ashen fireworks. 

Yet all you seem capable of doing is dumbly stare at the ruins of the makeshift hospital you’d just watched explode. 

The makeshift hospital you had been tasked to watch over.

For  _ weeks _ , you’d been monitoring intel reports for any sign that the Luftwaffe had been intending to bomb the town of Bastogne. Weeks of pouring over intercepted and forwarded information and maps and citizen chatter that you’d been  _ so sure _ indicated that the town was safe from harm, that the air attacks would be solely focused on the woods. 

Yet here you were, standing in the heart of a bomb-pocked town with ice in your veins and a terrible hollow in your heart.

You’d failed. You couldn’t have been more spectacularly wrong.

The irony of your mistake ending in fire was not lost on you, and as your eyes danced up with the flames and plumes of smoke you were filled with the same helpless feeling that had found you after learning of the fate of your mother, sister, and brother-in-law all those months ago. Only this time, you had no one to blame but yourself.

You had done this. You’d missed something and now all of those wounded soldiers and brave nurses and innocent people were dead and trapped.

When Gene grabs your shoulders you nearly jump out of your skin, blinking for the first time in what felt like hours and forcing yourself to focus on the drawn face of your friend. Something in his eyes gives you the impression that he’s been trying to get your attention for a long time.

“Y/N!” he shouts, using his grip on you to pull you back towards the jeep. “We have to go, we’ve gotta go back—”

“I- _ I should stay _ ,” you stammer, limbs feeling like lead as you stumble along stiffly. “I don’t think…”

Gene, ignoring your quiet mumbling, all but shoves you into the car and takes your previous seat as driver.

Eyes having drifted back to the smoldering church, you try again to get your fumbling mouth to work enough to speak.

“Gene, I think—”

“You’re not staying here, Y/N.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument.

“Bet you don’t even realize that your face is bleeding like a stuck pig….”

When you raise your hand to touch your cheek you feel that he’s right, you are bleeding- most likely from the initial blast of debris that had hit you when the bomb hit.

As Gene whips the jeep around to take off down the road, you feel the cool wind sting at your eyes, the air so drastically different from the smoke you’d just been breathing that it makes you lightheaded.

“I killed them,” you murmur, despite the fact that you know Gene can’t hear you. “I  _ killed _ them.”

Gene is crying when you look over at him but you can’t find it in you to offer him any comfort. What would the point be? What could you possibly say when everything you’d just witnessed was a direct consequence of something you’d missed?

_ Ron was wrong, _ you think to yourself as you look back to the rapidly approaching forest.  _ It is better to feel nothing. I want to feel nothing. _

Almost as if all you had to do was think about it- a strange calm settles bitterly in your chest, joining the hollow that had been deepening each day since you’d seen Blithe get shot through the throat.

Just as you’d wished, you slipped into the numbness of nothing.

~

Ron was worried about you.

No, he was more than worried. He was concerned... _ deeply _ concerned.

He had been for a while now- ever since you’d come back from a scouting mission with Blithe’s blood on your hands and a grim look of defeat marring your pretty face. He’d tried to talk to you about it, going as far as to pull you aside and wash the blood from your hands in hopes of getting you to open up privately- ignoring the confused looks of your superiors and his colleagues as he did so.

You had been, _ were worth _ any rumors that could come from his intentionally infrequent sign of humanity.

But you’d given him nothing more than a weak smile and whisper of thanks before slipping away to find Nixon. It was like that moment in the attic had never happened.

Seeing you come back from the town of Bastogne had shocked him, too. Not as much in terms of the blood pouring from the cut on your cheek, but in the absolutely  _ dead _ look in your eyes he’d found when he had begun questioning you as to what had happened.

“ _ I was wrong, _ ” you’d said emotionlessly, barely flinching when Spina had brought an alcohol-drenched rag to your wound. “ _ I missed something, and now the town is gone. _ ”

Before he could even begin to think of a reply, Spina had asked him to help get you to CP so the other officers could figure out the next course of action. And once he had, you’d had no more to say.

That night, Ron had poured over the information you’d been given concerning Bastogne, glaring at Nixon until the other man had relented and reluctantly given him the small wooden box you kept your reports in. You hadn’t _‘missed’_ anything- there had _been_ _nothing_ to indicate any sort of attack to the town for you to miss. You had done nothing wrong.

Not that he’d be able to convince you of that. Ron knew you well enough by now to know that your stubbornness could rival his own if you indulge yourself in it enough. He’d learned that long ago in Georgia upon meeting you, that you had not gotten here by accident or through any sort of familial connection- but rather by sheer determination and steadfastness and unapologetic bullheadedness, not to mention a natural gift for finding patterns in behaviors and translating them into strategy.

Watching you work, then and now, had been nothing short of marvelous. 

But this wasn’t you. This heartbroken husk of you that he had been seeing now made his already frozen body feel even colder.

Ron needed  _ you _ back.

Unbeknownst to you (and initially to him as well), you’d become the reason he fought. At first, it had been a more practical explanation:  _ you _ worked tirelessly to secure the information needed to build strategies and  _ he _ felt the need to reward that hard work with his own successful execution of the plans you’d made. Then, upon completing the task, you would come in and use any of the information you found to build the next strategy. It had been transactional, an exchange of services that helped the both of you work towards the mutual goal of winning the war.

It was simple.

There was no real event to precede his shift in perspective. One day you’d been Y/N and the next you were  _ Y/N.  _ He’d nearly said as much in the attic, when your eyes had burned him alive with their curious sincerity and your heart had called to him so sweetly he’d nearly kissed you. 

Seeing you now, blinking slowly in the warm candlelight while the voices of the choir wrapped around everyone like a thick blanket, Ron wondered if he should’ve kissed you.

He wonders if, by doing so, he could’ve somehow stopped you from getting to this point.

You hadn’t been at the frontlines earlier that day for the siege of Foy, yet you looked just as drained as every other man in the company who had. Even with his heavy jacket wrapped around your shoulders, your fingers still trembled as you picked at the dirt beneath your nails, making him wonder if you were shaking from something else other than the cold.

You startle slightly as he reaches over and places his hand over yours, head quickly turning to look at him and the tiniest dust of pink coloring your cheeks when you realized how close your face was to his. Almost as if you’d forgotten that he was sitting beside you in the pew, that only an hour ago he’d forced you to accept his coat while he scribbled out the names of the men now under his command onto some paper he’d asked one of the sisters for earlier. He hadn’t bothered writing your name- you were not like all of the others, you weren’t something to oversee and keep in order.

And as far as Ron was concerned, you’d been connected to him since D-Day. 

He didn’t need a note to remember that.

A shy, small smile turns your lips up at the corners- the action not seeming to quite reach your eyes but Ron felt the sincerity in it all the same. Flickering your gaze back down to his hand resting over yours, he watches as you hook your thumb over his small finger, pleased at the warmth he feels as you momentarily play with the silver ring he always wore there. Watching your profile, he only takes his hand away when you return your attention to the young girls in front of the altar, allowing his gaze to linger on you for a few moments before turning back to his list.

Feeling another set of eyes on him, he looks up and catches Lipton looking over his shoulder at the exchange. The other man quickly turns back upon being caught, and Ron studies the back of the other man’s head for a few moments before making up his mind.

“Y/N,” Ron says quietly, tilting his head towards the door of the church once your eyes find his again, standing and rolling his sore shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll drop you off at your billet on my way to Battalion.”

The offer seemed to surprise Lipton, but you take a deep breath and nod shortly.

“Alright,” you say softly, “let me go return Luz’s lighter and I’ll meet you at the door?”

As he nods, you stand up carefully and side-step in front of Ron out of the pew, meeting Lipton’s smile with a weak one of your own as you give the man’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Night, Car.”

Lipton pats her hand affectionately and then you’re striding over to the pews where Luz, Liebgott, Randleman, and Heffron have set up camp.

Ron watches you go as he loads his gear back on, once again feeling Lipton staring at him. There’s a familiarity in the way Lipton is looking at him- it’s a look everyone seems to send his way, ever since Donald Malarkey started the rumor on D-Day.

“You wanna ask me, don’t you?” Ron asks, watching the other man fidget.

“Ask you what, sir?”

“You wanna know if they’re true or not,” he clarifies, sizing the other man up. “The stories about me?”

Lip said nothing, and when Ron looked over his shoulder at the man he saw that Lip was looking away. The man amused him, to say the least. The man’s bravery was starting to show in ways that filled Ron with every confidence in him- glad to have a Lieutenant with a backbone in his newly appointed Company.

“Ever notice with stories like that, everyone says they hear it from someone who was there, and then when you ask that person they say they heard it from someone who was there?” Ron steps from the pew to stand before Lipton. 

“There’s nothing to ‘em, really. I bet if you went back 2000 years you’d hear a couple Centurions standing around yacking about how Tertius lopped off the heads of some Carthaginian prisoners.”

Lipton seemed to consider that for a moment before replying. 

“Well, maybe they kept talking about it because they never heard Tertius  _ deny it _ .”

Slinging his gun over his shoulder, Ron lets a smirk show on his face and squares his shoulders. “Well,  _ maybe _ that’s because Tertius knew there was some value in the men thinking he was the meanest, toughest son of a bitch in the whole Roman Legion.” 

When Ron looks over to where you are, he is glad to see that some of the tension in your posture has lessened. He can hear you mumble something that amuses Luz and Bull to no end, unable to help but feel a tinge of sadness at the fact that you’ve still got that hollow look in your eyes.

“If I may speak freely, Sir?” Lipton says, breaking Ron from his trance and allowing him to look back to the other man. When he nods, the new Lieutenant dips his head indicatively in your direction.

“I’m worried about her…. _ a lot _ of us are, Sir.”

Ron keeps his expression neutral, nodding at the comment.

“Is there a question in there, Lipton?”

A grimace crosses Lip’s face as he seems to ponder his words carefully. 

“No, Sir. It’s more of an observation, if anything.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know that,  _ technically _ , Captain Nixon is meant to be her immediate supervisor,” Lipton says with a bit more confidence. “But I worry that he’s been, er…. _ neglecting _ some of his responsibilities in favor of more cathartic activities….”

He cuts himself off, looking from side to side quickly before lowering his voice.

“Captain Nixon has been passing the brunt of the analysis work to Captain Y/L/N, if not ignoring it entirely. And, as great an officer as Y/N is,  _ Sir— _ ”

“I understand, Lieutenant,” Ron interrupts Lipton just shy of insubordination, giving the confused man a nod before realizing that he’s unintentionally called the other man by his new title. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention. You were right to do so.”

After informing Lipton of his promotion, Ron quickly turns on his heel and makes eye contact with you once more. As you fall in to step with him through the doorway of the church, Ron processes the new information he’s been given.

While he’d never really liked Lewis Nixon, this revelation has only solidified his stance on the man. It was one thing to drink on the job and still be productive- whatever _arrangement_ _this_ _was_ was unacceptable. 

Your hand is soft in his as he takes it, the fumble in your stride telling him that you hadn’t been expecting him to do so. But you still don’t let go, you still follow him past Battalion and you offer no resistance when he guides you inside of the small cottage you’d been assigned to.

When Ron gently takes your face in his hands, your eyes flicker down to his mouth before he even begins to speak.

“Do you remember what you asked me in the attic, a few months ago? About what I cared about?”

You nod slowly, and as your gaze meets his he could swear that you’re about to burn him to ask once more. You seem to lean into his touch, and while there is still caution in your eyes he thinks he may also see a flicker of intrigue in your irises as well.

“ _Things you can’t have. Things you shouldn’t care about.”_

You say it as if you didn’t need to think about it very hard to remember- something that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

“You, you know that I was talking about you.”

Then, you do something that Ron will never forget.

You smile. 

And this time, it reaches your eyes.


End file.
